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The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Spring
Flower
Whose
Wind
Heaven
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Gazes
Littles
Opened
Little
Blue

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Oh, river! darkling river! what a voice Is that thou utterest while all else is still-- The ancient voice that, centuries ago, Sounded between thy hills, while Rome was yet A weedy solitude by Tiber's stream!
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Alas! to seize the moment When the heart inclines to heart, And press a suit with passion, Is not a woman's part. If man come not to gather The roses where they stand, They fade among their foliage, They cannot seek his hand.
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Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.
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Ah! never shall the land forget.
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
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The groves were God's first temples.
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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
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The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.
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The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.
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There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.
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Genius, with all its pride in its own strength, is but a dependent quality, and cannot put forth its whole powers nor claim all its honors without an amount of aid from the talents and labors of others which it is difficult to calculate.
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Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
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Heed not the night A summer lodge amid the wild is mine, 'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'Tis mantled by the vine.
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Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.
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I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break.
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Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster children into strength and athletic proportion.
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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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He [William Henry Harrison] did not live long enough to prove his incapacity for the office of President.
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